A Regular Box 500
by x-LoveIsOurResistance
Summary: "She's the attaché, mate. Worse than the bloody Ruperts." After a humiliating failure to pass selection, Hazel Ford packed up her life in the army for a certifiable desk job. To the MI5 analyst's surprise, a few years after joining the domestic intelligence agency, she finds herself attached to the 22nd SAS regiment she was rejected from. Only this time, there's no running away..
1. Chapter One

**A/N**: _Well, it's been a while since I've posted anything on FF... Hi guys! I decided to try something new to prod my imagination a bit. It's been about a month since I've written anything substantial (years on here, though!) so I apologize in advance if it seems a little stale. I need to get back into the swing of things._

_Okay, as for the story, it's another fic with a female OC. I know. I'm sorry. She's very different to my other, though, so that's something. Bare in mind, this is just an opening/introduction, and things will pick up. I already know there are going to be questions about this chapter, and all I can ask is for the patience to let me answer them in future ones. 'How did a woman fail selection, she shouldn't have been there in the first place!' Well I know that... but hey, in this fictional little world, it was during a trial period to see whether women could make the cut, okay? Suspending disbelief for just a moment never hurt anyone. :) Anyway, this will eventually be Soap/OC. Whilst it doesn't completely disregard the story lines of the games, it will end up swaying away from canon. Hopefully in an enjoyable way, though!_

_Well. All I can say is thank you for taking the time to read. Reviews and constructive criticism would be really lovely, but if you can't get to it, that's fine too! Just enjoy the read._

**CHAPTER ONE**:

"Come on, Ford. You've got to help me out here. What are they saying?"

The man's voice—one which, most had noted, harboured unusual urgency—was emanating from single, secure telephone placed in the middle of the conference room. Each seat that surrounded the table was filled with those deemed relevant to the surveillance operation, and all eyes quickly switched to the analyst whom the voice was addressing. Hazel Ford. They were watching expectantly; as if they would never be content again without further news. As if she was the only source from which they could attain it. _No pressure, then…_

A moment ago the room had been abuzz with the exchange of information. Then again, Thames House never seemed to relax enough to take a breath. The flutter of papers, and the shifting of chair legs against the carpeted floor were not out of place. What was unusual, however, was the silence it had now fallen into. Eerie and asphyxiating.

"They're scouting," the brunette replied, clasping a single side of the over-sized headset to her ear. Her tone relayed remarkable confidence, considering she didn't feel anything of the sort. Though she had hoped her adjustment would aid her ability to decode what was being said, her attempts were in vain. "They're also discussing, rather less enthusiastically, the bridge toll."

Hazel's forehead crinkled as she frowned. Her face was the picture of complete concentration. Of all the difficult translating assignments she had found herself in the middle of, this was right up at the top of the list. Sometimes she wondered if her superiors thought she was a miracle worker. Don't get her wrong; she loved her job. At the very least she had convinced herself as much. Strangely, even after her extended time spent in the military, she had never felt like she had done a better service to her country. That didn't mean she could achieve the impossible, and retrieve helpful information from a source plagued by poor quality and ambient sound, however. It didn't matter how good she was at her job. If it wasn't there, she couldn't translate it.

"Is there any way we can clear the feed up?" She asked, addressing everyone, yet no one in particular.

It was proving a nightmare to hear the Georgian duo converse. Disregarding their lazy mumbling, lifting them over their car's engine, rumbling as they hurtled towards the Severn Bridge, was almost impossible. It sounded as if the radio was on, and the rolled down car window encouraged thunderous bursts of wind at the most inconvenient of intervals. If they hadn't already displayed themselves to be such incompetent fools, it would have been reasonable to assume such acts were a purposeful precaution. As if they'd known they were bugged by MI5, and suspected of planning crude but effective acts of terrorism on British soil.

These were not hardened terrorists. They were simply students. It was very much becoming the team's ultimate goal to find out just who was playing teacher.

"I could go sit in his lap, if you'd like," the man on the phone, Alan Richmond, a veteran agent, interjected sarcastically. "Ask them to talk directly into the piece?"

"That'd be great. Don't forget to tell them to enunciate." Jen Healy, Hazel's fellow linguistics analyst, muttered in response. It was clear she hadn't expected to be heard, and Hazel was so unwavering in her focus that she had missed her friend's retort entirely.

Silence fell upon them once more. This time, the people were less expectant, and more impatient.

"Do you need assistance, Ms. Ford?"

"Hazel is the best Georgian speaker we have, Ma'am," Alan protested his superior's doubt in the most polite manner achievable.

"It's not that I don't know what's being said. I physically can't hear what's being said. The bug is picking up all kinds of interference."

The woman looked unimpressed by Hazel's response, but didn't press further.

"They're stopping at the toll," Alan quickly added to cut up the debate, relaying what he could see from his inconspicuous place two cars behind.

"I was half expecting them to break through the barrier," someone from the other side of the room murmured, seeming rather relieved that this was another situation that wouldn't have to be smoothed over to limit the reach of their concern.

"Nah. They're stupid, but not _that_ stupid. If they're scouting, the last thing they want to do is draw unwanted attention to themselves. Can we pick them up on the booth's CCTV feed?"

"Someone get on it. I want to get a look inside of that car."

"Working on it."

Hazel closed her eyes and did her best to block out the others in the room. Now the seed of doubt had been planted in regards to her abilities, she was more desperate than ever to pick up something useful. It was a task much easier said than done. The atmosphere was almost palpable. Everyone seemed so tense—despite the fact that such gatherings were becoming a more common occurrence by the day—that the room felt like it might shatter at any moment. As if the air they breathed was made of glass. Nobody wanted to move. Bolted to their seats. The office lights that hung overhead flickered ominously, and a greying man sat two places away from her began drumming his fingers on the table in a uniform beat.

This operation was different from the others.

They were used to protecting civilians on their home turf, because it was, quite literally, in their job description. This time, however, the situation at hand was very different. The stakes were higher. They were protecting the wellbeing of their armed forces. These brave men and women were supposed to fight their battles overseas, not on their own front doorstep. It was simply not acceptable to let them down, and as a former officer herself, Hazel felt this more profoundly than anybody else in the claustrophobic little room. Though she might have made her decision to leave the army, she still felt an overwhelming sense of possessiveness over its members. As though they were her people, and she had found her way to this position to look out for them; just as they had always done, in a roundabout way, for her.

"Okay, I've got it," Hazel quickly piped up, cutting in between Alan and his continuing conversation with the faithless section head. She began furiously jotting notes onto the back of an envelope. "Confirmation that they _are_ talking about Beachley. Beachley is a zone of interest. Target A is asking for them to get closer, but the driver doesn't seem to have a clue where he's going. It sounds like he wants to find the best way into the barracks, but they're arguing about it. I also think they spotted the CCTV at the booths, because they're discussing other means of approach for the 'next time'. They're not going in now. This isn't it. They're still just in the planning stages."

"Ma'am, Freeman is at the other end of the bridge waiting to intercept."

"Negative. Do not intercept," the slender woman—stern faced, and appearing to be in her mid-fifties—replied firmly. "We can't hold them for wanting to take a trip to Beachley Barracks. I want you to keep tabs on them. At the first mention of Kineton, or any of the other possible targets, I wish to be informed immediately. Until then, amp up surveillance. They might just be dull enough to lead us back to a superior target. I don't want to spook a couple of hooligans in a Ford Fiesta until we know what's motivating them."

Hazel's eyebrows pulled together in a frown, despite the feeling of the woman's cold eyes observing her intently. A couple of hooligans they may be, but it didn't make their threats any less dangerous. Any less real... All they needed was one slack moment from MI5; a mistake on the end of an agency whose past was dotted with big ones, to succeed in whatever it was they had planned. In her opinion—not that it carried any weight around here—that was too much of a risk to take for a payout that wasn't guaranteed. People always accused her of ignoring the big picture. Perhaps this is what they meant.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Ford?" The woman asked, arching her eyebrows and folding her arms across her chest. Never had Hazel seen a more intimidating stance.

Though she had asked an open-ended question, there was only one answer.

_Yes._

"No Ma'am," Hazel responded robotically, shaking her head.

Hazel had never shared a particularly good working relationship with her boss. Though the analyst was utterly professional in an attempt to reconcile, the silver-haired woman seemed adamant in clinging to her less than favourable first impression. Though Hazel was no longer eager to prove herself—generally quite the opposite since taking leave from the Intelligence Corps—during one of their first meetings, a simple Azerbaijani translation correction must have come across as her intending to. And it had been at the expense of her boss' pride. Since then, it appeared things had drifted into the unsalvageable. Though Hazel had looked into transfers, and her broad knowledge of languages made her appealing to many other units that analysed raw intelligence, it seemed as though they all seemed to fall through before she could jump ship. Typical.

Jen said that she liked to break people. Always had done from the moment she had taken over as head of the unit, apparently. They suspected she got off on the power trip, and the only way she knew of to make herself feel better, was to treat others as if they were small. Hazel always reminded her friend that the army had its fair share of officers that lived up to a similar reputation. It was nothing she hadn't handled before. Life always seemed to throw her head first into the playground's bullies.

"Hazel, I'd like to see you in my office if you don't mind."

Hazel glanced up at her superior.

"_Now_."

Well this was only going to go one way: _terribly_. Perhaps a bollocking for not delivering satisfactory information on the Georgian pair's conversation? It wasn't like she was going to pull random shit out of thin air _just_ to make the woman feel better about the resources she was already begrudgingly dedicating to the operation. Maybe she had seen the look of disapproval that had followed her decision not to apprehend the terrorists before they could strike? Fuck. The last thing she needed was to get her ass chewed out again. It had been a fourteen hour work day. All she wanted to do was head home, and pass out on her couch to a readily recorded omnibus of Pobol y Cwm.

"Of course, Ma'am," Hazel nodded in response, placing her headset down carefully and rising to her feet.

Chambers didn't wait for the analyst; instead heading off to her personal office before Hazel could even give a 'good work' to the people who had been involved in planting the bug, following the suspects, and keeping her in the job.

"Good luck," Jen mocked, flashing her trademark, toothy grin in the direction of her best friend.

"Tell Alan I may need his gun afterwards," Hazel sighed, neatening up her notes before she could take leave.

"You can't say stuff like that, Haze. Besides, I reckon if you shot Chambers, she'd pick the bullets out and keep on coming at you."

"I definitely wasn't talking about shooting Chambers…" Hazel replied, flipping her hair dramatically before pressing two fingers to her temple to mimic a gunshot.

"Get out of here, loser," Jen scoffed, pushing the younger woman's shoulder in the direction of the exit.

Hazel replied with nothing more than a wiggle of her fingers, watching as her colleague picked up the phone to continue their exchange with Alan who was still tailing the two men. Holding a few scraps of paper and a manila envelope to her chest, she left, and made her way down the dark, dull corridor towards her impending doom.

Two knocks at the door and she was summoned inside with a simple 'enter'.

"Take a seat, Ms. Ford," Chambers suggested, indicating to the only empty seat in front of her insanely depersonalized desk.

It immediately struck Hazel as odd to see two other people occupying the remaining chairs. They were analysts, like herself, but had played no part in the previous surveillance op she had assumed she was about to be questioned on. George, the man sat in the middle, she immediately recognized as they had trained together to join the service. The third attendee, however, a rather lanky looking man, she had never met before.

Without querying as to just what was going on, she did as she was told, and gracefully lowered herself into the leather seat.

"You three are being transferred."

It was blunt, simply stated, and completely unexpected.

No more words came to soften the blow.

"Wait, what?" George Pill, the man sat beside Hazel quickly demanded. It was less of a 'did I hear that right?' and more of a 'what the fuck are you thinking?' She had barely managed to process the words before he continued. "What about our current assignments?"

George had voiced exactly the first thought that had crossed Hazel's mind. She and the team she was assigned to had been working on the Georgian leads for almost three months, now. Not only was it disappointing to consider not seeing an outcome after all the tireless effort she had put in, but she immediately decided she didn't like the idea of trusting someone else with her work. There was a reason she had been chosen. Her knowledge of Eastern European languages was some of the most extensive in the building. What if somebody else didn't get it right? What if somebody else didn't get it right, and people got hurt?

"They will be reassigned."

"You've got to be kidding me. We don't even get to finish up first?"

"Mr. Pill, I was unaware I had invited you here under the premise of a debate. They are orders. You will follow them."

"Excuse me," Hazel interrupted, trying to shake away the expression of confusion at the sudden turn of events. After spending so long to get a transfer, she couldn't believe that now, of all times, her boss finally decided to take her requests under advisement. "Where exactly are we being transferred _to_?"

"Well, had you let me finish…" Chambers trailed off, as snobbishly as ever. "All three of you will be picking up the regular rotation of attachment to the 22nd SAS regiment, Credenhill. Johnson and Fortescue fly back in the morning. You three have been selected to take their place."

Hazel's heart, already pumping away nervously at the situation, sank into her stomach.

It was the exact regiment she had been rejected from. The exact regiment that had, if only indirectly, ended her career in the military. They had exposed her weakness, and she was too ashamed to stick around and own up to it once she had been returned to her original unit. Now she had to go back and not only face her failure, but an entire lifetime she thought left behind.

"Is this mandatory?"

George was further protesting the idea, but Hazel had close to zoned out entirely. When she had requested a deviation from her normal work, this was the last thing she had wanted. The last thing she had expected. Perhaps now, her eagerness was coming back to bite her in the ass. Whilst it seemed unlikely that Chambers would be so petty as to send her there purposefully; fully aware of her past, failure to make the cut, and how deeply it had affected her afterwards, it was not impossible. There was nothing Hazel would put beneath her.

"No. It is, however, an opportunity to broaden your horizons. You're all young. Without family, or ties to the city. You're all outstanding in the fields most applicable to the position. I personally put your names forward, and it would reflect rather poorly on me if you don't start showing some enthusiasm to be working with some of the most well trained men in the world."

What were the chances of this happening? All of a sudden, her mouth felt as though she had been trekking across the desert for days without water. Like her tongue was swollen, and her lips were stuck to her teeth.

"I don't understand why they need an MI5 attaché," George pressed. "Isn't half of their job reconnaissance work?"

"It's a longstanding position, George. Whether or not you understand why it exists is irrelevant to me. It still needs to be filled, and it's my job to pick the ideal people for the job. There have been members of our agency working closely with the regiment for almost thirty years. Naturally, it's not something we broadcast. The Home Secretary simply likes to…_keep tabs_."

"Wait, do they know we're MI5?" The lanky man finally spoke up, his voice nervous and croaky as if he'd forgotten how to use it.

"Of course they do!" Chambers said exasperatedly. For a moment, her glare certainly suggested she was second guessing choosing this man to sit before her. In fairness, it did seem like a silly question… "We couldn't very well pass you off as a military man, could we? Look, you work beside them. You don't deploy with them, and you aren't going to be in harm's way. You'll be behind desks at Hereford, mostly relaying back and forth information. Working with them to make sense of information they might retrieve that's relevant to the security of the country. Sometimes, your skills may be necessary to aid in operations, but only from the sidelines, and it is most certainly a rarity!"

For a woman who appeared to be trying to sound as convincing as possible, she was anything but. Then again, Hazel never would have pegged her as one for a decent pep-talk.

The three glanced at each other; Hazel testing to see whether the two men seemed as reluctant as she felt.

"I take it I can count on your support?"

The two men looked content to offer their services. They confirmed this to be so with simple nods. Chambers turned to Hazel, whose eyes focused her hands rested in her lap.

"Ms. Ford?"

"When do we leave?" Hazel finally asked, looking up at a woman she would be quite happy to place a three hour drive between.

"At the end of the week."

No matter how much her ego suffered for it, it was impossible to deny that she missed the buzz of a military life. There was a certain appeal that was impossible to ignore once you had been a part of it. Her decision to leave had been brash, and she had been known, a few pints of bitter worse for wear, to become emotional over the fact she had thrown it all away on a whim. (Not that she'd ever admit that sober, of course.) Just because she was happy with the job she had now, didn't mean she could have been happier if she'd stayed where she was.

"All right," she finally conceded, straightening herself up with fresh determination. "I'll be there."

The army had always felt like her calling… and here life was reminding her that she couldn't run away from it anymore.


	2. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO:**

"All right, Georgie boy, let it out," Hazel muttered, offering a degree of sympathy that was lacking from anyone else watching the man, rather spectacularly, choking up the contents of his stomach.

Clearly, the journey from RAF Northolt to Credenhill Barracks had not agreed with him.

_Not in the slightest._

George—now as white as a sheet—had wasted no time in exiting the helicopter once landed, shamelessly painting the tarmac with the full English breakfast Hazel had watched him consume only a few hours prior. It was a less than pleasant sight. The poor guy really was ill. Disregarding his ghostly change in skin colour, he was visibly shaking, and not so visibly sweating beneath his argyle knitwear. Whilst the other two had looked completely at home throughout the entirety of the trip, George appeared as though he had just finished a four minute mile. Even Hazel couldn't find the heart to step back and take time to chuckle at his predicament. That was saying something…

Standing behind his hunched over body, she cautiously petted his back as if he were a semi-dangerous animal, prone to turning its head and biting at her fingers.

"Why the fuck did we have to take the whirly-whirly tin can piece of shit anyway?" He growled, lifting the bottom of his jumper up to wipe his mouth before Thomas, the third person in their party, could reach out with a handkerchief.

They looked on with noses wrinkled in disgust; but it was, for George, _rather typical._

"I haven't the faintest idea," Hazel began, trying to ignore thoughts of just what else he was willing to wipe on his clothes when the situation presented itself. "Perhaps next time you can request taking your bags full of classified government documents on the first Virgin train out of The City?"

Okay, so perhaps it was an exaggeration on her part when it came to the importance of their work… but they all knew full well how anal the service was when it came to information sharing. No matter how insignificant the content might have seemed. George would never forget the privacy lectures and scrubbing of his personal computer after he'd tried to make his own Facebook profile. 'It's just to pick up women!' He'd insisted to their supervisor… _Schoolboy error_.

"First class, of course," Thomas added, hitching his backpack over his shoulder in preparation to head towards the building in which they had been expected almost fifteen minutes ago.

So he _could _speak after all. It came as rather a revelation after the stick-thin, reasonably attractive, East-Asian man had remained deadly silent for the whole morning. Perhaps he didn't like waking up at ridiculous o'clock in the AM, either. Hazel definitely understood that particular pain.

"Failing that, I'm sure MI5 is big on letting their dirty little secrets get ferried about by a replacement bus service."

Pressing her lips together, Hazel stifled a snigger. It appeared as though Thomas even had a sense of humour. It would have been a lie to say she wasn't surprised. The look on her woozy colleague's face really was priceless, and she gave his shoulder one last, feeble pat. The sky must have always seemed like it was falling to such a grumpy sod, she thought to herself.

"Okay. Okay. I get the point, and I dislike you both intensely," George finally conceded, lifting his hands up in surrender, the frown permanently etched onto his angular features now. "Nice hair by the way. You look like a fucking scarecrow."

Scarecrow? _More than likely accurate. _

It didn't surprise her after falling victim to the rotating blades above. A rogue gust of wind during an evening stroll could make it seem as if she'd walked through a wind tunnel. It was a genetic curse (or so her mother always said.) Though, back in the day when such methods of transportation had been more common her hair had been a tameable length, Hazel had since changed her appearance drastically. With basic training came a desire to conform to the stereotype. At the beginning of her military career, she'd wanted nothing more than to blend in. By the end of it, the painted target on her back was of her own doing.

As life 'offered' new direction, she traded in her coffee coloured pixie cut (which nobody was afraid to say looked awful on her) and muscles, for something that identified, to her at least, as a little more _Hazel._ It felt good to be who she wanted to be, rather than who she thought might appear more suited for the job. It was liberating. A weight off her shoulders. Despite the gender equality issues everyone thought had progressed so far forward in recent years, there were still growing pains; a rampant mindset that femininity somehow made you a less competent soldier. It was the one thing about the army she never could stand. Not for a second was she opposed to getting down and dirty when the occasion called. Anyone who knew her felt her desire to be as hands-on as any of the men. Infuriation came hand-in-hand with the knowledge that people questioned her abilities just because she had boobs, but still wouldn't offer her the chance to prove herself. Especially when she actively sought, in every aspect of her career, to be _the best._

When the selection process had promptly let her know _that_ was never going to happen, there was no reason for her to keep up her 'one of the lads' façade. She had needed the change. She needed distance from Captain Ford; a part of her that she was more than content to leave behind entirely.

Now, Hazel's hair easily reached the base of her sternum, she kept her eyebrows and nails well groomed, she rarely ventured out of the house without mascara, and perhaps, most dramatically of all, she had seriously thinned out her figure. It truly was astounding how quickly muscle mass could diminish when the only exercise she partook in was cardio. God, she didn't miss crunches… Still, sometimes she didn't know whether she felt good about it, or in a time of weakness, simply found herself encouraged by everyone else approving of the transformation. The issue of her decayed confidence was still not a demon she was willing to confront.

Not yet.

"And to think I rubbed your back!" Hazel exclaimed, appearing, rather convincingly so, to be offended by his statement.

"Yeah, yeah," George scoffed in response. All in a bit of good natured teasing, of course. Then he paused. Glancing upwards, he pointed to the edge of the helipad. "Hey up, we've got company."

Just as Hazel had reached up to her tangled mess of hair, three men had made their way towards the trio of analysts; the ones bumbling about like idiot children on their first school trip.

As soon as she had set her sights on the all too familiar beige berets, she was grounded. It was like hitting concrete after skydiving out of the back of a Hercules. No parachute.

The journey to Credenhill, rather unusually, had been the first time since hearing about her transfer she wasn't reliving her greatest hits at selection. The buzz of travelling by helicopter had served as a thrilling reminder of some of the most memorable times she'd had in the army. One of the best, perhaps, when she had played dead-weight during a training exercise (thanks to an injured ankle, she wasn't much use anywhere else) in which a platoon of men had to evacuate her from 'hostile' grounds. Now, stood before her—shoulders back, heads up, hands neatly tucked behind their backs—she was confronted by the worst.

It seemed implausible they knew of her failure. Hundreds upon hundreds tried, and didn't meet the standard; far too many for a single face to be remembered. That didn't stop her mind, in its current state of irrationality, from assuming otherwise. Hundreds may well have failed, but how many of them had been women? How many of them had quit from embarrassment once they'd been RTU'd? How many of them had enforced all assumptions that pretty little ladies simply weren't cut out for the regiment? Hazel could have sworn the taller of the two, with fiery red hair peeking from beneath the cap and a long, pointy nose, was definitely smirking. It immediately registered as judgment. Innocently enough, and unbeknownst to her however, it was actually directed at her scarecrow hair...

"Welcome to Credenhill," the third man said, stood proudly in front of the two, nameless berets.

He held out a hand, and they all took it to shake in turn.

"Colonel Pickering," he added as soon as they'd all stepped backwards. The warm smile seemed out of place considering how rigidly formal the greeting seemed to be. "Consider us your welcoming party. If you'll follow the two officers, please, we'd rather like to get you set up before the afternoon. The Major, of course, also wishes to see you before work gets underway."

It was amazing. After all this time away, her hand still twitched in readiness to salute a superior officer.

None of the three responded aloud. Thomas and George seemed too intimidated to breathe as the orange haired beast lifted both their bags over his shoulder, and turned on his heels to encourage them into movement.

The second beret, handsome-faced and well built, Hazel assumed to be in his early-to-mid thirties. He whistled quickly to draw her attention. Snapping her eyes upwards, she watched as he lifted a well-built arm to first point at his head, and then towards her, raising his eyebrows questioningly. It almost seemed as if he was trying to contain a laugh.

Hazel quickly realised he was mocking her mess of hair.

Pretty rich, coming from a guy with what looked to be a Mohawk, she thought. It took a conscious effort not to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull.

"Need help with your bags, there?" He enquired, Scottish accent profound, and amusement even more so.

"No." Hazel had replied so quickly, it was almost as if declining assistance was a reflex. "No. I've got them. It's fine."

The man stared at her for a moment. If he was bemused at all by her reaction, he didn't show it.

"All right, then. After you."

By this time, the Colonel had entered the helicopter responsible for stranding her smack-bang in the middle of Hell. Hazel quickly realised it was just herself and the Scotsman left.

"All right, then," she repeated firmly, nodding her head with determination disproportionate to the task at hand.

Unfortunately, she hadn't anticipated that her two 'gentlemanly' travel companions would leave her not only to carry her personal luggage, but their combined collection of work, documents, and other papers too. Now her stubbornness just seemed idiotic. Thankfully, the helicopter had taken to the air before the senior officer inside could see the immature display. As she looked towards her colleagues, already making their way across the expansive area of green between the helipad and the main building, she cursed herself internally. There was no way she could justify shouting for them to come back and pull their weight when she had just told Action Man over there to stuff it.

Sighing out through her slightly bumpy nose, she slung the bags over her shoulder, and started to tug her wheeled suitcase onwards. Time to suck it up, princess, she scolded herself. The bags weren't particularly heavy, but their bulkiness made it hard to manoeuvre without looking as though she was struggling. Hazel was almost certain she could practically hear him smirking as the small heels of her boots sunk into the rain-softened turf. 'I bet he thinks I'm walking like I've shit myself.'

All she could do now was cringe.

Soap hadn't the heart to tell her she'd missed a bag during her hurry to get moving. Shaking his head, look of amusement still intact, he picked it up himself. She didn't need to know until they got there. This wasn't the first 'independent' woman he'd seen too stubborn to accept his assistance, and she sure as Hell wouldn't be the last.

As they walked towards the barracks in silence, he knew that working with the spook would make his already challenging task of commanding a squadron of men that much more so.

_Bloody brilliant._


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N: **_I probably shouldn't have written this whilst I was half asleep, so I apologise in advance for any and all mistakes! I did proof read a couple of times, so hopefully they're at a minimum, regardless._

_Firstly, I just want to clear up a timeline issue before anybody gets confused about when this is set. So the beginning of this story is set between the end of the first game, and the start of Modern Warfare 2. Operation Kingfish **has** happened (hence the lack of Price right now). However, as I stated before, I am going a little off canon in places. This is one of them. So, for canon Kingfish, the 141 was already established. In my world, it was just a SAS/Delta joint OP, and Soap/Shepherd haven't created the 141 yet. Ghost will also be recruited later. I needed a little pure SAS time between those two points in which to introduce my character, otherwise her run in the story would be too limited, and it wouldn't make much sense bringing her forward into the events of Modern Warfare 2. Hopefully, that's cleared things up a bit, but if there are any unanswered questions, I think the story should clear them up as it goes._

_I also would just like to take the time to thank all those who have read, favourited/followed, and especially my very first reviewer, Republic of Gamers! I really appreciate it a great deal. Criticism and suggestions are always welcomed. They help me gauge what you'd like to see next, and how to improve my writing! (Obviously!) Hope you enjoy the chapter. :)_

**CHAPTER THREE**:

Well. It wasn't _quite _what she'd expected, but it sure as Hell could have been worse.

"This one's yours. Usually meant to sleep two, Ma'am, but I guess the Major thought you should have some privacy, bein' a—" he said before pausing, gesturing at her limply, "—_woman _an' all."

Whilst she knew that it was unfair she had a room to herself when the norm was for two to bunk together, privacy was indeed a luxury; one that she wasn't going to throw away over pride. Now was not the time to be crying about equality. She had gotten far too used to the cushy lifestyle being a civilian offered for that. Besides, she wasn't enlisted anymore. Surely that was as good an excuse as any to be okay with bending the rules when it came to accommodation?

By this time, the unnamed Scotsman had disappeared. Shortly after entering the building, he had handed the bag he'd rescued to a younger looking trooper, and discarded the attaché for what she assumed to be more pressing matters. Hazel had almost face palmed. Actual hand-to-face contact. How could she have been so stupid to have missed a bag? God, if he didn't know about her failure to pass to selection, this surely screamed of incompetence. Trusted with military intelligence, but also an occasional tendency to leave it lying around on the floor. _Why not?_ Regardless, this new guy apparently didn't have a clue, and accepted his Captain's orders without complaint. That didn't stop him from looking one hundred per cent unenthusiastic about it, however.

The brunette dropped her bags in a messy pile at the end of the bed she sincerely hoped was more comfortable than it looked, before turning to the solider. She'd acquired his name whilst a bunch of men had catcalled after them when he'd been assigned as her escort. _Demo._

"Major says if it ain't up to your standards or anythin', there's a Hotel in town instead," Demo told her, shoving his hands in the pockets of his camo jacket.

"It'll be fine," Hazel assured him, glancing once more around the awful, smoked-salmon coloured room. "I definitely don't think I'll be swinging any cats in here, though."

"Guess not."

Demo appeared stiff, and disinterested in communication beyond the absolute necessities. Well, she was going to have to break him eventually. If she planned on working around these men efficiently, she needed to give them every assurance that she wasn't some out-of-touch suit who wanted to parade around the place as though she shat rainbows. It didn't help that she had no idea who had filled this position before her, and just what kind of impression they had left behind.

"So. Your name's Demo?" She asked, quirking an eyebrow, and tossing her blazer over the back of a chair.

"Yeah. That's what all the guys call me, anyway," he nodded, shuffling his feet slightly. "Look, you need help getting to the Major's office, or can I get out of here? Cap's got the Killing House booked this afternoon, an' he gets his knickers up his arse if we're late."

Demo stiffened again.

"Could you, er… _not_ tell him I said that?"

Hazel made a gesture as if she were locking her mouth shut, and throwing away the key.

"Thanks, Ma'am," he sighed with a chuckle, clearly relieved by her reassuring smile.

"Drop the Ma'am. Call me Hazel. Now come on," she urged, pointing towards the corridor. "I promise I'll walk fast."

Though reluctant at first, after a further 'please' from Hazel, he caved.

The two exited into the even more stomach churning, mint-green corridor, and she began to follow the lead of the dramatically taller trooper. Keeping to her word, they upped the pace, but he certainly seemed a little softer now.

"So how long have you been a part of The Regiment?" Hazel enquired, side-glancing briefly to observe his reaction.

"Passed selection 'bout three months ago. Was assigned to A Squadron, 1st Troop right after. It gets a little rough sometimes. The Captain runs us hard. But I s'pose we're 1st Troop for a reason, eh?"

"This Captain of yours sounds like a real ray of sunshine," she scoffed, zigzagging between the people marching through the corridors purposefully. It took effort to keep up with Demo's gigantic strides. "Does he have a name?"

"MacTavish. Best bloke I've ever served under," he admitted with utmost confidence. Perhaps, indeed, even a hint of pride. "The Scot. Walked you in."

"Ah."

Well that made sense. Though he hadn't seemed as rigid as some of the officers she'd come across in her time, she could definitely see him knowing how to crack the whip when he set his mind to it. He struck her as one of those people who could command the attention of everyone in the room without even trying; naturally intimidating.

"You didn't like him?" Demo grinned, eyebrows raised questioningly.

It spoke volumes that he seemed surprised by this. Clearly, people disliking MacTavish wasn't the norm.

"I didn't really talk to him," she shrugged, reluctant to pass judgment on someone she hadn't known for longer than five minutes.

"Well, he's a good man. Got a real habit of being a shit, an' winning people back over right after. He'd probably have a fit if he heard me talkin' so candidly to a spook…then take me out for a curry right afterwards."

With that, they had reached the office in question, and Demo stopped in his tracks. Leaning forward, he gave two, stern knocks on the door. Multiple figures could been seen moving around inside through the frosted glass panel.

"Guess we're partin' ways, Ma'am."

"Thanks for walking me. Without a map I'm pretty directionally challenged, and I'm sure the Major doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Before he could respond, a booming voice shouted 'come' from the other side of the wall. It was so familiar, she was sure her heart had skipped a beat in acknowledgment. There wasn't time to respond before George, already inside, yanked the door open for her.

Both of her fellow analysts were stood before the Major's desk. The silver haired Officer, now glaring out of the door at Hazel and Demo, was stood behind it. Though he didn't say anything, his expression inspired a sense of urgency for her to step inside.

"It's kind of you to join us, Ms. Ford," The Major began, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Maybe he hadn't been glaring… Maybe that was how he always looked? It was then he noticed Demo, and his expression changed to something part-way between confusion and impatience. "Dembrowski? Why're you bumbling around outside of my office? I thought MacTavish had the House booked for CQB?"

It was clearly rhetorical. When the trooper failed to move, the Major gestured his hands wildly.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go get suited up, man!"

"Sir."

Demo nodded his head obediently, straightening up and saluting his superior officer, before turning on his heels and marching away at a distinctly quicker pace than when he had arrived.

It was as the man raised his voice, she recognised him. Yet another Scottish accent; in some ways more distinct than that of MacTavish. He'd aged. Significantly so, considering the fact it hadn't been a great deal of time since she'd last laid eyes on him. Clearly, the stress-deepened lines on his forehead weren't the only thing to have changed since their last encounter, either. MacMillan also had a shiny new rank.

Stood before her was the reason she had failed selection.

It felt as though her heart was in her throat.

"_Ms. Ford?_"

It had taken a jab in the ribs from George's elbow to bring her back to reality. Without realising, Hazel had found herself completely zoned out; glare fixated on the man's crooked nose as if her life depended on it. It seemed as though he realised she hadn't been paying attention, because he quickly repeated his question without so much as a shred of impatience.

"I trust you find your living quarters satisfactory?"

"They're fine, yes," she rasped, folding her arms across her chest.

The Major offered a content smile, before he began informing them of just what their job would entail. He detailed the areas in which they would work, were permitted to spend time in, and the people with whom they would most closely be interacting. He gave them examples of routine assignments that could be carried out on base, as well as 'away' operations both domestic and foreign their predecessors had been a part of. He explained that even though they would still answer to MI5, there was a degree of expectation that they would still respect the chain of command presented before them. He spoke for almost twenty minutes with the two men, whilst Hazel had completely disengaged. She wasn't even sure what the majority of the conversation had been about, let alone taken part in discussion like Thomas and George had.

It seemed as though the Major had picked up on this.

When her two colleagues had been dismissed, Hazel found herself 'requested' to stay behind.

George's eyes had been so full of amusement as he'd left; like a naughty schoolboy watching his best friend get bollocked for something he'd done.

Without even giving it a second thought, she blindly obeyed MacMillan's orders, and sat down in front of his desk.

"Well I never thought I'd see you back here, lass. I knew you'd parted ways with the army after you were RTU'd, but MI5? Never would have pinned you for a bloody spook," he chuckled, sitting down in his own chair. "How are you doing?"

It caught her off guard, at first. The way he talked to her as if he hadn't played a direct part in the demise of her career. She shuffled awkwardly in her seat. It was hard to tell whether seeing him again absolutely crushed her, or absolutely infuriated her. All she knew was that it hurt in a way that she hadn't felt in years.

"I'm all right."

"Good. I'm glad."

An awkward pause descended on the small space.

"Tea?" He proposed, nodding his head in the direction of a rather lonely looking kettle. It was balanced precariously on top of a filing box.

After a moment's thought, Hazel shook her head. In the debate between seeming polite, and getting the Hell out of there, there was a clear winner. The older gentleman didn't seemed disheartened by her rejection, however, and instead went about making a cup for one.

"You know," he began, pausing to bring the object to life with the flick of a switch, "I was always hoping you'd try again, and use up your second shot. You had so much potential. _You were so close_."

"If I was good enough, I wouldn't have failed the first time around."

"That's rubbish. There's men in the regiment now who didn't make it on their first shot, and they're bloody fine soldiers. The pressure on your shoulders was remarkable, Ford. Everybody wanted you to fail, and you pushed on anyway. The fact you made it as far as you did proved a lot of old dogs wrong."

Hazel sighed loudly, shaking her head, and running her fingers through her hair in frustration.

"We even had the bloody Paras sniffing around after you left, because they thought you'd be an asset!"

Thinking about what might have happened had she given selection another shot wasn't helping the situation. If he thought they were even _close_ to words of encouragement—or something she wanted to hear at all, for that matter—he must have been going crazy in his old age.

"Well it doesn't matter now," she breathed, determined to look anywhere but at him.

"It matters to me. I was rooting for you," he said simply, before heading over to finish making up his tea.

Neither of them spoke again. Not until he sat back down, cup in hand, and took his first sip.

"Aren't you mad at me? I hit you."

"You broke my nose, actually," MacMillan asserted, looking across at the young girl with a strange sense of amusement. "You hit like a bloody heavyweight."

"Exactly."

"I've been in the SAS since I was a lad. Trust me, lass, I've broken a lot worse."

That seemed easy to believe.

"MI5 has been a great opportunity for me, you know."

"Come on, now. You're honestly going to tell me you're content behind a desk? I've seen you in action, and find that very hard to believe," he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're a wasted talent."

"I couldn't go back!" She exclaimed, eyes wide. Her hands had started to shake ever-so-slightly in her lap, and her palms were already clammy from the sweat. What frustrated her most of all was how this would be wasted on him. It wasn't as though he would understand what had been running through her mind. "How was I supposed to go back after that?! I wasn't strong enough to pass selection, and I wasn't strong enough to face my unit ripping me to shreds afterwards. I had to pick myself and brush myself off one too many times, MacMillan. I didn't have it in me to do it again!"

When he realised he'd struck a nerve, he held up a hand. Prodding her into such a state had not been his intention; especially as he realised how worn down she looked after only one exchange. There was a vein practically throbbing on her forehead.

All he could hope was that she now realised someone had been in her corner, after all.

"All right, Ford. Easy," he said gently, looking, for the first time in her own experience, apologetic. "I didn't expect it to still be so touchy. For that, I apologise."

Though Hazel didn't verbalise her thanks, her appreciative nod was all he needed.

"Let's talk about business instead, yes?" He suggested enthusiastically. Perhaps it would be seen as more neutral ground.

"Good idea," she agreed, sucking in a deep breath through her slightly parted lips, and desperately trying to regain composure that she otherwise rarely let slip.

"All right. Let me lay out how this is going to work. Each of you are assigned to a troop."

"But aren't there four troops, and only three of us?"

"In a time of conflict, one troop is, _generally_, deployed to that region ready to engage in operations. You three get attached to the remaining troops at Hereford. Pill and Chung have already been given their teams," he informed her distractedly, reaching across to another haphazard pile of files, and fishing the top one away.

"So which troop am I with?" Hazel asked, taking the folder as he handed it across the table that divided them.

"1st Troop."

"MacTavish?"

"You've already met the Captain?" MacMillan queried, looking pleased by such a notion.

"Briefly."

"Good."

_1__st__ Troop. What were the bloody chances…_


	4. Chapter Four

**a/n: **_Just again, I would like to say thank you very much for the support! Reviews, follows, favourites... all very much appreciated! If there's anything you're unhappy with, or would like to see unfold in the future of the story, just let me know! As much as I love writing, this is as much about the readers' enjoyment as it is the author's._

_Also, just to clear up the Hazel being referred to as a 'spook' thing: whilst I definitely don't speak for every British person (of course) I generally find if we use the word, it's to describe _anyone_ in _any_ intelligence agency. That may be different in different parts of the UK, so I would understand some debate on that, but I hadn't realised that was perhaps a personal view on things. My apologies for confusion. :) I certainly hear it directed more towards people working in MI5 than any other British intelligence agency, at least. Then again, that could be because nobody really talks about MI6/SIS all that much. ;)_

_This chapter is a bit longer, but I'm finally beginning to incorporate a few more familiar names/faces! Enjoy!_

**CHAPTER FOUR**:

"You guys got everything set up yet?"

As silly as it sounded, a sense of relief washed over Hazel as soon as she set foot into the office that she, and her fellow analysts, would be inhabiting. Home. Unlike all the other claustrophobic little rooms she had found herself in this morning, it was comfortable. The north-facing wall boasted several large windows that let the afternoon light pour in with ease. It didn't feel enclosed, even though desks spanned the rectangular perimeter. George was already getting to work setting up a myriad of electronic devices that had been delivered by road shortly after their own arrival, and Hazel was certain she had never seen him look more involved in his work. He was truly in his element.

"Clearly," George scoffed sarcastically, rolling his office chair from one side of the room to the other. He took to another keyboard purposefully. "No thanks to you two."

"Hey," Thomas piped up, looking as if he were arranging some kind of filing cabinet, "you know I'm no good with tech. Do you want me to end up setting your precious little baby on fire?"

George grumbled something indecipherable, and shook his head in disapproval.

"Glad to see you two getting along so well," Hazel smiled wryly.

"I'm gonna get some masking tape, and we're splitting this room into three. You guys don't touch my shit. I don't touch your shit. Does that work for you? Good. Works for me, too."

"We're supposed to be working _together_," Thomas reminded the other man.

"Yeah, _George. _You're so aggressive," the woman taunted, sitting down on the edge of the desk he was working at, and crossing her legs idly. "You have the attitude of a teenage girl."

"He spends enough time with them…"

They all fell silent.

Chung's delivery was flawless. The retort was instantaneous, and he hadn't even bothered to look up from the folder he was now flipping through distractedly. Deadpan. Utterly vacant.

It was that; the way in which he'd replied, rather than what he'd said, that made Hazel snort so loudly. Quite unladylike, indeed. Though she clasped a hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle it, her amusement was already obvious.

Teasing George was quickly becoming a team sport. In their line of work, Hazel had learned early on that finding amusement in the little things was a big help in getting through the day. Even as analysts, they saw a lot of bad shit. They were exposed to a lot of bad people that splintered their faith in the world. It was the kind of stuff that couldn't just be forgotten when your head hit the pillow, and each new day didn't bring a fresh slate to work with. It was never that simple. The agency to which they reported meant that at the end of the day, nobody really knew what they'd been through. It couldn't be shared with those you trusted to ease the burden. The only people who were really in your corner were those who had seen it with you.

Whilst they would happily rip each other to shreds, they did so knowing that they were the only ones who could really put each other back together when it counted.

"Dude. Not cool…" George replied, an expression of utter seriousness on his face that only caused Hazel to convulse with laughter even more than she had done before. George could only glare at her as if her finding amusement in it was the most traitorous act imaginable. "She was twenty-one."

"It was a joke," Thomas laughed, holding his hands up as if he were completely innocent.

"Okay, okay. I think we all know better than to foray into George's romantic life... Let's be serious, before he starts building a barricade," Hazel interjected, trying her best to appear as serious as possible. It wasn't going well. "Is there anything you need me to do?"

There was a pause. Thomas appeared to be in thought.

"Well, you could start by getting this… _situation—_" George began, highlighting her yoga pants-clad lower half with a double-handed gesture, "—out of my face. I'm distracted enough as it is by that comedian fuck over there."

She reached out a leg and kicked the seat of his chair right between his legs. The impact was enough to give the wheeled contraption some momentum, but nothing substantial enough to jar him. Thomas and Hazel laughed as George tried to steady himself. She hopped off the table.

"That's it, man. I'm writing up a report."

Changing out of her suit had been the first port-of-call after leaving MacMillan's office, but now she was wondering whether her attire was the best idea in the world. When Hazel had reached her room, she'd barely managed to shut the door before peeling off her clothes and tossing them into a haphazard heap at the foot of her bed. _Sweet freedom_. Though she hadn't been particularly _nervous _about the exchange with the Major, she wasn't immune to uncomfortable situations, and the side effects that came with them were evident. Her silk blouse felt unfathomably tight around her chest. Constrictive, almost. Where she had perspired—choked by the tiny little office, home to a ghost of her past—the delicate material clung to her skin, and sweat-dampened patches had formed at her underarms.

Going for a run to ease stress had become habitual. With her line of work and pain-in-the-arse family? It made for a bloody lifeline.

The afternoon was reserved for setting up their workspace, and there seemed to be no better time to explore the barracks that would become her home. Perhaps, if she could find her way to where they were training, she would even take the time to catch up with the troop she had been attached to. After her earlier conversation with Demo, she couldn't help but feel a little inquisitive when it came to MacTavish, and just how much effort it would take to get their working relationship off to a smooth start. She could still see that cheeky smirk he'd offered up at the sight of her hair. _Little bugger_.

"I think we can handle it, if you're planning on getting out of here," Thomas said reassuringly, slumping down into his seat in a way which suggested even he was ready for a break from the morning's dramatics.

"I was going to just go for a run. Maybe catch up with 1st Troop and introduce myself."

"Well my boys are out on a domestic op, and George clearly isn't feeling very sociable today…" Thomas trailed off, watching as the man in question flashed a rather rude hand gesture in response. The cheeky grin that followed reminded them it was all in good humour. "So I suppose one of us ought to go and make a decent first impression. Go for it. We'll see you later."

"Don't miss me too much," Hazel pouted, ruffling the front of George's perfectly prim hair in a way she knew he absolutely detested. "I'll buy the first few rounds later for skipping out on setting up."

"You'll buy all the fucking rounds. Now be gone, peasant."

And with a wave of her hand, she'd left almost as quickly as she'd arrived.

It was amazing how a short exchange of banter could lift her mood so dramatically from its earlier, rather depressing trough. Although she hadn't known Thomas until their reassignment, she found herself quite glad that both he, and more surprisingly, George, were in her company. If anyone could make it a tolerable experience, it was going to be them.

The run was pleasant. For the time of the year, the sun beamed down with what could only be described as an 'un-British' heat. The smell of warm tarmac and grass filled the air. Usually she preferred to exercise once the temperatures had dipped, but a brisk wind whipped through the randomly dotted trees, and took the edge off the mildness. The barracks, though expansive, were slightly less so than she had imagined. She took a few minutes to stop and ask for directions from a kindly mechanic. After some contemplation, it was decided she would circle the base in the opposite direction to where her troop was located. The scenic route, Hazel told herself. And that it was.

A little over thirty minutes later, when the building in question came into sight at the end of the slightly gravely pathway, she immediately noted the presence of a handful of men outside. There were also two, navy blue range rovers that she could only assume had transported them there. Three of the soldiers were leant against one, apparently puffing on cigarettes. Another, larger man in what looked to be full gear, was engaged in a rather strenuous set of push-ups. MacTavish was nowhere to be seen.

The building itself wasn't remotely what she had expected. Though it was called the 'Killing House', she had anticipated something much more like a military fixture. Simple, weathered, and with good old fashioned construction. Instead, she really was faced with what the name suggested. _A house_. A little tatty it may have been, but the two-storey detached property looked convincing enough on the outside to be slotted in to any of the surrounding villages. A part of Hazel was positively intrigued as to whether the inside was of a similarly convincing nature.

With a quick swipe of her forearm, she eliminated all the sweaty evidence on her face from the run, and slowed to a walk. Once she was within earshot, she heard one of the men call out.

"You lost, sweetheart?"

The man who'd spoken up was one of the smokers. Upon calling out, he extinguished what was left of it with the ends of his fingers, and slipped it back into his pocket. He both looked, and sounded, like one of the men Hazel had once known in her block of flats in Hackney.

"Are you a member of 1st Troop?" She asked, notably short of breath from the exercise.

A part of her wasn't entirely sure how to introduce herself. It was strange. Hazel never felt like a fish out of water in social situations. She had always possessed a natural confidence that many deemed admirable. Yet now, face to face with a member of the SAS, she felt what could only be described as intimidated. Strange. She'd always wanted to be one of those 'intimidators'…

"She's the MI5 attaché, mate. Worse than the bloody Ruperts…" The man beside him whispered.

It was awfully exaggerated. The kind loud enough to be heard by Hazel—not to mention most of the men stood around him—and he knew it. A few of them sniggered. The one doing the whispering looked particularly smug with himself. Hazel stayed silent, and kept her attention fixed on the one she had questioned. He didn't respond. Instead, he peered at her with a look of amusement generally mirrored by the other men who had now come to stand behind him.

Hazel stiffened slightly.

"Well?" She asked, raising her eyebrows to assure them she did, indeed, still expect an answer.

"Sergeant Wallcroft," he introduced himself, before pointing at his friend. He didn't look particularly happy to have been practically demanded to respond, regardless of the harmless nature of the question. "Corporal Griffen. _1__st__ Troop_."

The answer was frosty. Nobody attempted to pick up the train of conversation when he was done speaking. Hazel could already sense this wasn't going well, and she had thought _MacTavish_ was going to be the problematic one.

Thankfully, just as that thought crossed her mind, he appeared in the doorway of the building. If the sergeant couldn't muster a warm welcome, judging by the riled look on his face, she wasn't about to receive much better from the captain.

"Pretty sure we're going to get on like a house on fire," she whispered to herself, in a similar manner that Griffen had done formerly, before making her way over to the man who was now shouting at his troop. The men hadn't appreciated her smirk.

"That was a piss poor run. Your time was bloody appalling," Soap bellowed, now only a stone's throw away. It wouldn't have surprised Hazel if everyone on the base could hear him scolding his men. "It's a good job your 'hostiles' had watermelons for heads, otherwise we'd be scraping you off the walls, and sending you back home in a Lidl bag!"

To her disbelief, what she saw next was truly the highlight of her entire life.

Two soldiers had now exited behind their captain. One had the expression of a scorned puppy dog, and the other looked as blasé as if he had MacTavish hurling abuse on his 'go to sleep' play list. In their arms, each carried a figure.

They were dead weight bags, designed to simulate carrying real, unconscious individuals. These, however, seemed to have fallen victim to a little… _creative _flare.

"Who the fuck shot Gerald in the face?" An unknown trooper heckled from the background.

The two dead weight bags had makeshift heads on them. It looked as though a four year old had drawn on the facial features, and applied the garishly red lipstick. They each wore a scraggly wig—the kind picked up in a party shop, to be worn with the most ridiculous of fancy dress outfits and then buried away for the rest of eternity—and the blonde even appeared to be sporting a sequined bikini. Considering the exercise was such a serious one, she had to give them kudos for not bursting into laughter every time they breached the door and saw their 'hostages'.

Gerald, the second dead weight bag with a wig as red as the lipstick, had clearly taken a bullet to the left eye. No wonder MacTavish looked so pissed.

"Prep again! Explosive entry in forty five!"

Though they all looked as if they wanted to groan in exasperation, the men nodded their heads obediently and went about checking equipment. Hazel wondered how many times they had already gone through the exercise since they had started earlier that morning. Wallcroft took to his phone and called for the 'cleaners' to come and reattach the windows, doors, and generally dispose of the mess the other four man squad had created.

"We'll show you how it's done next time, boys," Griffen grinned, throwing his own cigarette onto the floor and stomping it out. He patted the scorned puppy, Hazel now realized was Demo, on the shoulder reassuringly. "Watch and learn."

By this point, Hazel was stood at the outside of the group awkwardly. It was a rather surreal situation to find herself in. Not much like anything she had encountered before. She didn't particularly want to interrupt the captain reprimanding his men for sloppy training. But then again, she felt like a bit of a lemon, stood there in silence, with seemingly no purpose beyond sweating through her racer back tank top. Just as she shifted her weight and decided she would approach MacTavish, he turned on her himself. Her heart began to beat as if she were jogging again. There was no look of surprise. It appeared as though he'd seen her there the entire time, and simply chosen not to acknowledge her presence.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"Not really," Hazel said, shaking her head. His voice sounded different to earlier. It was les laid back, more urgent. "I just came to introduce myself. I got attached to your troop earlier today and figured if we're going to be working together, I should probably say hello."

MacTavish didn't look convinced. He stopped just before her, running a hand over his Mohawk.

"We're in the middle of a training exercise. Not really a great time. They don't need distractions."

"I'm not here to distract. Just to observe," Hazel countered, folding her arms across her chest.

"That's a distraction."

Hazel pouted. She glanced over the gigantic man's shoulder, and flicked her attention to the troopers.

"Well, don't you break for lunch?"

"Not until they get it right," Soap said sternly, still maintaining a dismissive expression, rather than one of annoyance. His tone gave the distinct impression he saw her as a pest.

"They're probably not going to get it right if all they can think about is their stomach eating itself."

"They need to learn to work under all conditions. Hunger included."

It became clear that neither was ready to back down. She also realised she was probably coming across like a disrespectful arsehole. Though she was expecting the second meeting with MacTavish to be awkward, even Demo hadn't prepared her for this level of standoffishness. Every suggestion Hazel offered, Soap shot down, and she couldn't help but wonder why he was so reluctant for her to meet his men. They weren't restarting their exercise for another forty minutes. Surely this wasn't an issue?

Silence descended between the duo briefly. MacTavish glared at Hazel, and she returned the favour. She narrowed her eyes slightly. It didn't seem to be hostility oozing from the officer. More like stubbornness.

It surprised her that he was the first to crack.

"I didn't introduce myself earlier. I suppose you know now, but…" The Scot began, his expression softening fractionally as he held out his hand. It was definitely a gesture born of obligation, rather than courtesy. "Captain John MacTavish."

There was only a momentary hesitation before she took his hand. The difference in size was almost laughable, and the roughness of his palms had been quite unexpected. After offering a slight squeeze, she let the captain from her grip. Hazel dropped her hand back down to her side awkwardly. Though she had once been an officer, out-of-uniform formalities had never been her forte.

"Hazel Ford."

They exchanged stiff smiles.

"Hey, Soap. Ask the nice lady if she wants to play hostage, since Gerald got all beat up," Griffen shouted.

"Good idea, man. I think we'd be less inclined to put a bullet in something that doesn't bleed fruit juice."

"She'll have to get in there eventually."

Immediately, Hazel perked up. The stiffened smile melted away, and the brunette quickly adopted a look of pure mischievousness. She knew that Griffen's suggestion was meant to have the opposite effect; to scare her, rather than intrigue. Lucky enough, she couldn't have given less of a shit whether he was pleased by her reaction or not. Though she knew that it was essential to cultivate a good, working relationship with the men, she had told firmly she was not going to let them walk all over her to get it.

"Well, I'm game for that," she assured Soap, tightening up her long ponytail in preparation.

"_No._"

The response was deflating. As stern as he had been before, and with an expression that suggested she not try and disagree with the ruling, Hazel suspected that this was as far as the idea would travel.

"Come on, Sir. She's going to have to get in there eventually. Standard procedure," a trooper called out.

"Agreed. Little Sanderson, 3rd Troop, is fresh out of Selection. He could do with a run through, too. Teach 'em how _not_ to fuck up a rescue-op should they ever find 'emselves taken," Wallcroft added.

"As long as they don't put a bullet through my eye socket, I'm fine with it."

Again, the captain didn't even contemplate the input, and he shook his head vehemently at the very idea of placing the analyst in harm's way. Hazel frowned. Why was he being such a stubborn bastard? If it was standard procedure that she learned how to conduct herself during a rescue operation, why was he so against getting it over and done with? Usually, confronted with any similar situation, she wouldn't hesitate to speak up and let it be known that she disagreed with his decision. Opinionated always. This time, however, was very different. She stood in silence, and pleaded only with herself that someone else would be able to convince their captain to let her give it a go. She craved what would be the closest thing to an army exercise she had been a part of in years.

"It's too bloody dangerous. Flash bangs, breaching charges, and live ammunition. I'm the one whose ass is on the line here if something goes wrong, princess."

_Good grief_, she thought. If this was the way the captain acted when it was just a training exercise, how on earth was he going to be during those 'away' operations Chambers had mentioned occasionally presented themselves? Whilst Hazel had been assured she wouldn't be on the front line, any mission could prove dangerous to a degree. It was a hurdle that needed to be cleared now, rather than later when it could actually cause problems.

"If you're willing to put Sanderson in there, then you're confident that no damage is going to be done. Clearly, that means there's no danger to me, either," she finally added, trying her hardest to make her argument sound more convincing than she knew it was.

Soap glared right at her. If looks could kill, she'd be dead before she even got inside of the house. It was a bit of surprise he wasn't already trying to strangle her.

Clearly, he was unimpressed by her persistence, and that only made her want to push it further. There was something quite entertaining about toeing his boundaries. Unusual, considering the short amount of time that she'd known him for. Hazel wanted to see if she could crack him like she had done moments ago during their introduction. So far, he seemed to be all bark and very little bite.

The burly man sighed in frustration, his large shoulders sinking as if he'd been deflated with a pin.

"You're not stepping foot inside of that building until I clear it with MacMillan."

Though Soap was still quite obviously opposed to the idea, his statement sparked a sense of hope that had formerly been absent. If MacMillan decided it was a good idea, then the captain would have no grounds to prop his argument upon. He'd be forced to let her play hostage.

As the officer reluctantly walked away to call his superior, Wallcroft summoned Hazel's attention with a two-fingered whistle. His tone still notably lacked warmth, but he did offer something akin to a respectful nod. It was the kind that suggested even if he didn't much like her being there, he still approved that she wasn't afraid to put herself into an unusual and precarious situation for the sake of the team's wellbeing.

"You'll be all right. We're better shots than them," he reassured.

"Well," she started, lifting her arms in an expressive shrug, "you know what they say. Who dares, wins."

With this, Wallcroft offered his first genuine grin. Soap could only turn around, clearly not having reached MacMillan yet, and call back.

"You know what I say? _I can already tell you're going to be a real pain in the arse._"


	5. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**:

"Now look at that. Never a prettier sight, eh Wallcroft?"

Hovering inches in front of her own was the seedy face of Griffen. The Corporal was young, stocky, and had sharp eyes that seemed full of distrust. He was fragrant with cigarette smoke, and the yellowed ends of his fingers suggested he was an habitual offender. Hazel wanted to turn away from him. His breath was stiflingly unpleasant. If it weren't for his grip on her jaw, she might have tried.

As soon as he was finished duct taping her mouth shut, he gave her cheek two, heavy-handed pats.

"What's that?" Wallcroft called back, stood just outside the doorway into the bedroom that looked as if it had been perfectly plucked from an IKEA catalogue.

"The best kind of woman is a woman who can't talk. Seen and not heard."

Hazel glared at him icily. It was probably a good job she had lost her inability to speak because a few, particularly rude choice words sprung to mind.

"Don't be a prick, Griffen."

It was clear by Wallcroft's tone that Griffen's poor attitude was commonplace. Even after the brief amount of time she'd spent in his presence, this didn't exactly surprise Hazel. The words no doubt landed on deaf ears… so why even bother to try and sound convincing about it?

The Corporal scoffed and continued to observe the woman before him. She had thick eyebrows, peridot eyes and high cheekbones. Though she was physically quite appealing, he had a natural affinity for writing off women who possessed more than one brain cell to rub together. Intelligence meant power, and he very much enjoyed elevating himself to that position when it came to relationships. He narrowed his eyes. He didn't like her at all, and he was making a point of letting her know it.

"Bet you never thought you'd be sat here after fucking up selection, eh? Guess it's your lucky day."

It was only a momentary reaction on her part, but she knew the man in front could feel it. He was like a shark sensing blood; circling around his wounded prey until ready to deliver a fatal blow. Upon hearing the words, her gaze faltered, and her once slack body tensed into alertness. _How did he know_? _How had he found out?_

"Oops," he said with feigned surprised. "Were we not supposed to figure it out?"

By this time, Gary Sanderson, the second 'hostage' in the room, had turned his attention to the one-sided conversation. His mouth was also duct taped shut—not that he looked as though he was bothered to intervene, anyway. He was, she'd quickly noted upon first meeting him, abnormally tall. In fact, he _had _to be bordering on six and a half feet. If he didn't have such narrow shoulders and a slim build, she could see the cheap bed collapsing underneath his weight. Still, appearances could be deceiving. She had already heard MacTavish talking about how he was one of the most skilled troopers he'd ever seen.

Continuing on, Griffen smirked coldly. He had the kind of face on which such a look seemed right at home. As if his features were carved with the purpose of wearing it."Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. You're not the only one with access to a little intelligence around here."

The man got to his feet.

"If it's any consolation," he added, turning back as if it were an afterthought, "the other guys won't care too much when hear about it. The losers who aren't good enough to make the cut aren't worth more than a couple of laughs."

The brunette's cheeks flushed crimson against her olive complexion; both embarrassed, and furious in equal measure. For a fleeting moment, she couldn't help but wonder what she had done to provoke a frankly unwarranted reaction from the man. They didn't know one another. Had she unknowingly done something to offend him in such a short period of time? Hazel's skin prickled with rage. It was if she were a pot being heated to boiling point. All she wanted to do was leap out of the chair and strangle him with the plastic cords that bound her fists from making any irrational moves against him. She tugged, shifted about in her chair, desperate to tell him to shove his opinions where the sun didn't shine. _How about you talk to me like that when I'm not restrained_, she thought. Yet she was held silent and immobile by the idea that had, half an hour earlier, seemed so appealing.

Griffen laughed heartily, shaking his head as he reached the doorway. "We've got a feisty one, lads!" The Corporal looked around the room, content with his work. He bowed dramatically, as if being applauded by a rowdy Broadway audience. "My job here is done. Now, don't you be going anywhere."

With that, he took his leave. The unmistakeable click that followed told the two that they were now locked inside. Hazel had never been so glad to see the back of another human being, but such relief did little to ease her mood. She gritted her teeth and took a long, calming breath. Maybe he was this much of an arsehole to everybody right off the bat.

It would be a lie to say that she wasn't beginning to worry Griffen was going to make her attachment to the regiment as painful as she'd anticipated back in front of Chambers. When she had first been delivered of the news that made her want to light her boss's hair on fire. Demo had eased her concerns, but perhaps his kind nature was merely a taste of the minority. How fast were they all going to turn on her once the Corporal relieved her of her secret? Was she, perhaps, worrying _too _much? Living under an illusion of elevated relevance, when really, nobody could have given two shits about her bruised ego? The latter seemed the most likely, but her unhealthily dominant streak of paranoia made it hard to rationalise under such circumstances.

Of course she was going to worry what they thought of her. Hazel always did.

The woman lifted her gaze from the tatty door. Gary Sanderson had been flung onto the metal framed, queen sized bed across the room from her. Similarly, his hands were tied behind his back, and the strip of silver tape across his thin lips was clear. Despite the position he was sprawled in looking painfully uncomfortable, his expression was as vacant as the moment she had first laid eyes on him. It appeared the idea of the door exploding open any minute didn't daunt him in the slightest. Almost as if his thoughts hadn't been in the room for some time.

The house was strangely normal. Maybe it was easy to feel at home. It half surprised her that the walls weren't lined with china dolls and the heads of trespassers, but when Wallcroft had walked her inside, he explained that the state of the décor was very much purposeful. It needed to seem real. They needed to feel, prowling through the halls in search of their mock prey, as though it was a genuine situation. These were the exercises that stopped them choking in the field; when they were tested, in every possible way, to their very limits. These exercises were the bread and butter of the _best _special forces unit in the world. The gravity of being a part of it struck her more than she'd expected.

There was one section of the building, however, quite different from the others. The rubber walls each room possessed (perfect for absorbing the impact of live ammunition) meant that it escaped the carnage the rest of the house saw on the regular basis. The men had set up a tradition—though nobody seemed to know with whom it had originated—that anybody who passed through 'The House' had a duty to add to its interior. It was frowned upon not to, and for that reason, it was filled to the brim with untouched additions of all kinds. Some absurd, some antique, and some astonishing. Wallcroft assured that every past attaché had made their mark. Hazel would be the next to add to the history.

'See that biscuit jar?' Wallcroft had asked, pointing towards the most horrific, ornamental glass pot she had ever seen. Its contents seemed undisturbed. God only knows how old they were. 'Prince Harry's.' With that, Hazel's eyes widened. _Even The Prince had contributed_? 'It was good to know he had a sense of humour about it,' Wallcroft chuckled nostalgically. By the way the Sergeant talked, Hazel assumed he had been present at the time they had run the young Royal through a similar situation she was about to find herself in. She was well aware they were briefed on how to deal with possible hostage situations. 'He filled the whole thing with Ginger Nuts, then took the rest back to the mess to eat with the boys.'

_Well, then. Just who the bloody Hell had sat in this armchair before_?

A radio on the bedside table had been nattering away loudly since they had arrived. If she wasn't mistaken, it sounded like an ancient edition of Desert Island Discs. It wouldn't have been her first choice, but it was much easier to concentrate on the interview than the incessant ticking of the clock positioned above her head. Each strike of the second hand was deafening. She didn't know how long they'd been sat there, and she clearly couldn't ask Gary. The overwhelming sense of anticipation made it feel like hours. _God, she was so impatient_…

The woman briefly found herself wondering whether MacTavish was still annoyed by her earlier persistence. If the roles were reversed, there was no way in Hell she would have caved to some mouthy, try-too-hard nutcase… She hadn't always been that way, though. Being eager to prove oneself was an apparently incurable symptom of prolonged military life. It was the mindset of a woman trying to justify her place in a man's world. If she could shed it-and by God, had she tried-she would have already, because it truly was amazing how quickly such an attitude could fuck her over when she needed it least.

Hazel had nothing but the best intentions when she'd set out to meet the troop. Instead, she'd ended up undermining their Captain's orders right in front of them. _Top marks and a gold star, you crazy bitch_.

Such thoughts had encouraged an uncomfortable pang of guilt. Hazel hated the way she had no control over the knot in her stomach. Though she would be the first to admit she was unreasonably stubborn, this time, it was blatant who was at fault. _Sure enough, it wasn't the walking bloody Mohawk._ An apology he deserved, and an apology he would get. She just had to remember how to tack one together, first…

The attempt at easing her conscience was, however, _short-lived_.

If she hadn't been expecting them, she never would have heard it above the radio. _Above her own thoughts, even. _Every internal debate she had just been having with herself drained away in to insignificance. With her heart in her throat, and her breathing halted nervously, a pin drop would have sounded clearly.

The sound of suppressed gunfire echoed from beneath. Small, concentrated bursts.

The four man patrol cleared the ground floor with a deadly combination of speed, and a ruthless dexterity that could only be military.

She looked at Gary. He looked right back.

It couldn't have taken more than ten seconds.

It was so fast that even though she had considered herself vigilant and prepared, when the door burst open with a flash of blindingly white light, she realised she was anything but.

What followed was a highly unpleasant blur.

Before her brain could register what was happening, she had been pulled to her feet by unsympathetic hands. She had never felt more disoriented. The blast could have knocked her unconscious and they wouldn't have known the difference. The pressure change caused by the explosion had devastated her ears before the flash bang had even come into effect. It reminded her a lot of an extreme version of her ears popping during an aeroplane's take-off. Whilst everything around her droned on, she was dragged down the stairs. They weren't gentle; they did what they needed to do to get the job done. It sounded like a man behind her was shouting, but there was no way in hell she could make out actual words. She wasn't even sure what part of the building she was in anymore. Everything was moving too fast. She couldn't get her footing.

When they finally reached the threshold of the building, close to ten more seconds after the room had initially been breached, the sunlight almost blinded her bloodshot eyes. It was the most surreal thing she had ever experienced. She finally took a breath. The air was not sobering.

The two men who had grabbed her upper arms let her go, and she hit the grass like a tonne of bricks. It was as though her brain didn't understand which way was up, and which way was down. Even if she did manage to differentiate, her balance had been so thrown by the displacement of fluid in her ears, she would have been hugging the floor anyway. She blinked a few times. The sun's rays were unforgiving.

Hazel hadn't even noted someone had been stood above her before they flipped her over on to her front. In fact, she hadn't manage to absorb anything about her surroundings. The movement had been rapid, yet everything felt contradictorily fuzzy. Adrenaline ensured that she didn't feel her face make rather harsh contact with the ground.

"_Hazel?_"

She glanced over at Gary. Her vision was slightly blurred, but she could see his distinct face. The young trooper was already sat up, rubbing his head, and looking as calm as he had done before he'd been dragged out of the room. In fact, she was pretty sure he was _chuckling. _

"Hazel?" The same voice as before repeated.

She felt someone cut the cord that bound her wrists. Her shoulders were suddenly riddled with pain as they found release from the stressful position. Even in her semi-lucid state, she still found satisfaction as she heard someone bark at Griffen for the unnecessary tightness with which he had restrained her.

It took her a few moments, but she rolled back over, glancing up at the small crowd that was now hovering over her.

"You all right, Hazel?"

She tilted her head to the side. The buzzing voice belonged to Demo, and he seemed to be throwing together a makeshift bandage to cover a rather nasty looking cut on her shoulder. _Huh_, she mused. Hazel didn't remember hurting her arm... Thanks to the dull ache growing inside her head, she sure as Hell couldn't feel it, either. It was a good job she had never been a squeamish person when it came to the sight of blood. Rather amusingly, however, Wallcroft didn't seem as thrilled by what he was witnessing. It was easy to think of the men as nothing more than robotic, calculated killing machines… but at the end of the day, it turned out that even someone who saw death and injury on a regular basis could still have an irrational fear. _How in the world did he pass first aid_, she wondered.

Looking back up, she spotted MacTavish towering above her. In contrast to the sky behind him, he was almost silhouette like; as if her life had transformed into a badly edited photograph. The Scot was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Perhaps assuming a grudge against her earlier behaviour had been premature, after all? It was impossible not to find encouragement in his impressed expression. Maybe that was why, just like MacMillan's own words had assured her earlier, he made for such a priceless leader. Before Hazel knew it, quite unsure as to why, she began to laugh behind her gag. The sound of her own amusement boomed inside of her skull.

"Looks like you made it out in one piece, after all," he shouted, adjusting for her obviously dulled sense of hearing. Soap crouched down beside her, and carefully peeled the tape off her lips. The taste of the adhesive lingered; pungent and chemical-like. He offered out his arm. Hazel gladly accepted the gesture ad gripped his solid muscles. As she sat up, the world seemed to lurch precariously around her. Knowing she had an audience made the feeling easier to fight. "How're you feeling?"

Hazel paused for a moment. There didn't seem to be a word in her vocabulary to describe it. If there was, she couldn't think of a single reason why she would have used it before today. "Well. It was most certainly intense…"

"It takes some gettin' used to, sweetheart," Wallcroft boomed, grabbing her other (blood free) arm and lifting her to her feet alongside his Captain. _No shit_, she thought. "Gary over there's all right 'cause he ain't got a brain to disorientate."

Though she had all the grace of Bambi on ice right now, she took comfort in feeling her body begin to right itself. God, the adrenaline that had bled into every inch of her was delicious. Perhaps fear wasn't entirely the right word, but her body had reacted in much the same way. She'd always loved the buzz that came with being frightened. The pure state of alertness, and spine-tingling rush that came with a dangerous experience. Some people froze. Others used it to thrive. Hazel was one of them.

It was impossible to deny she had missed it_. _Even in the Intelligence Corps, she had had her brushes with danger.

"I haven't had that much fun in years," she chuckled, combing some hair out of her dirty face. A piece of grass stuck just above her eyebrow, and MacTavish peeled it away with a careful hand.

"You should try being on the other side," suggested one of the other members of the four-man squad responsible for her 'rescue'. His grin was broad as he removed his gas mask, perhaps impressed by her enthusiasm. Clearly he didn't realise that being on the other side was the biggest goal she had ever set herself.

"All right," MacTavish piped up, turning away from her, but maintaining his comfortingly close proximity. Wallcroft had mentioned something about the CCTV throughout the house. It was how the Captain managed to observe from a distance. "That's the kind of time we're looking for. Fast and clean. Comms we good. A little heavy on the breaching charge, Pritchard. Trying to blow the bloody door off, not the attaché's head."

Hazel zoned out as the Captain began to lecture his men. She glanced down at her arm. It still seemed to be bleeding, but it certainly wasn't serious enough to warrant a stitch. She suspected a rogue piece of splintered door had nicked her during the breach. Touching the makeshift bandage, she turned her attention to Demo.

"Thanks for the rag, Doc," Hazel said with a chuckle, nodding her head in appreciation.

"Well, couldn't go lettin' you bleed out." Demo rubbed the back of his head, offering up a small smile in response. "Glad to see you made it out okay. Apparently the last Box we had through here threw up when he came out. The guys never let him forget it."

Hazel's thoughts immediately switched to George. _The little shit was going to love this_. The time he spent with his mouth taped shut would probably be the longest he'd ever been quiet. She could see one of his troop '_accidentally_' putting a bullet in him just to stop him from whining on about it when they were done.

Hopefully those CCTV cameras recorded…

"Think I passed their test?"

"With flyin' colours."

Hazel breathed a sigh of relief.

"I should go pack up," he said, gesturing towards one of the vehicles. "I'll see you around, Ma'am."

Before she could insist, once again, that he referred to her as _Hazel, _he had disappeared to join the rest of his troop. They were flitting around, packing up various pieces of equipment and loading it into the back of the vehicles in which they had arrived. They moved like a well oiled machine; each of them knew their place, and they functioned like clockwork as a team. It surprised her that this carried through to even the most mundane of tasks.

Reaching for the back of her head, she released her hair from the tight ponytail she adopted whenever she went running. It seemed unlikely her actions would have any bearing on the impending headache, but it was worth a shot. She tilted her head back and ran her fingers through the soft curls. They were tangled, frizzy from the humidity, and near the hair band responsible for restraining them, the strands were dampened by sweat. She was unsure whether it was from her jog, or because of her body's reaction to what had just happened, but there was no doubt in her mind that she looked more than a little unsightly.

It was a good job that of all her qualities she feared being judged, her appearance wasn't one of them.

"We're heading back for lunch. You want to grab a lift with us?"

Turning so quickly towards the source of the voice had been a mistake. As her vision shot around to MacTavish, the dizziness that hit her screamed of vertigo.

"Hey. Steady." MacTavish reached out and gripped her shoulder firmly, clearly anticipating the fact she was about to fall on her arse. "You're a bloody safety hazard."

It took a moment for her to register. "Yeah, well, I think you guys broke me," she scoffed in response, her hand shooting up to the man's arm for support once more. His hand was warm. With a seemingly genuine grin, by some miracle, he made her feel like less of an idiot. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deep; well weathered. She hoped that it was because he smiled like this so often, and not because the stress of military life had been unkind. "_Thank you_."

"For trying to break you, or…?" The Scot's grin bordered on devious, and his lingering hand, now content that she was stable on her feet, returned to its place at his side.

Hazel shot him a knowing look. There was no doubt in her mind that he had perfected said cheeky expression to work in his favour many moons ago. Perhaps, under different circumstances, she could have found herself falling victim to it. Her shoulder felt strangely heavier at the loss of his touch.

"So, Bambi. Yea or nay on the lunch?"

For a moment she did contemplate accepting the offer.

"Option two. I don't think I'm quite ready to see the Officers' Mess, yet," she joked.

Soap simply laughed. "Me either."

Though she couldn't help but wonder what he meant by such a comment, something urged her not to question its meaning. She wasn't about to push his boundaries again for fear he would run out of forgiveness before the day was through. He was still smiling, but it was different than the infectious, cheeky little grin he had offered earlier. It didn't reach his eyes anymore.

"I think I'm just going to walk back," she finally decided, pinging the elastic hair tie against her wrist. Maybe the cool air would wash away the headache before she got back to George, and he provided a whole new level of suffering. "The fresh air will probably do me some good."

"It'll pass," Soap assured, words empathetic. Hazel believed him.

"Oh, Cap!" The men had finished packing up by this time, and Hazel and Soap turned to see Wallcroft and Pritchard grinning in their direction. Wallcroft put his hands around his mouth so as to amplify his voice. "If she's gonna miss lunch, I reckon we should at least invite Lady Thames to games night!"

"Lady Thames?" Hazel swivelled to look back at MacTavish, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

"I wanted to call you Vauxhall," Griffen interrupted before his Captain could assure nicknames were the norm, stamping out the remainder of yet another cigarette beneath his gigantic feet.

"That doesn't even make sense," said Demo with a frown.

"It's called wishful thinking, lad. Maybe if we will it hard enough, we'll get someone from the SIS instead."

Some of the men laughed at this, MacTavish included; all completely unaware that this was not the Corporal's first dig at Hazel today. It wasn't made in good nature. Though she didn't make a point of bringing it to anyone's attention, she also didn't dignify his remark with a response. For now, at least, she knew his opinion would be unwavering. Offering him more attention because of it was the last thing he deserved.

Wallcroft didn't join the chorus of chuckles. Instead, Hazel saw him subtly shove Griffen in the ribs. It was a struggle not to smile at this. Whether or not his intention was to defend her was irrelevant; she was still glad he wasn't afraid to ask the Corporal to cool his jets when he got a little out of hand. It made it feel like less of a battle knowing that their might be someone overlooking the situation with some sense. The larger man leaned down to his subordinate and muttered, "_Why are you being so fucking menstrual today, huh?_"

"Well, I could go for a game night." Hazel focused her attention back on the conversation as Griffen slinked away. Spending time with the men under circumstances which didn't involve her on the receiving end of a flash bang had to be an improvement. "What is it, like a pub quiz or something?"

Soap didn't respond. He simply shook his head and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that swiftly informed her she had gotten the wrong end of the stick. Again. _Why break the habit?_

"There aren't really any games involved, love," Pritchard assured, throwing his arm around Soap's shoulder with a dead-pan look. "It just sounds better than 'getting a curry, and going out on the piss.'"

"You know, you could have just mentioned the alcohol, and I'd have played less of the hard to get," she smirked playfully.

Wallcroft now took to the other side of MacTavish, layering his arm over Pritchard's. He whispered loudly enough for her to hear, but acted as though she wasn't present. "It's official, Cap. _I think I like her_."


End file.
